He resolved, therefore, to return to the inn among the vineyards. Acting straightway upon this noble resolve, he stumbled along totally unknown paths up hill and down dale; plunged through field after field of Indian corn; pursued his endless way through hemp grounds and fallow lands; scrambled on all fours through hedges and ditches, and finally forced his way through a vast morass in which he wallowed freely. In a sober condition he would have come to grief twenty times over, but Fate always protects the toper.

Then he strayed into a vast forest; zig-zagged through fens and coppices like an old dog-wolf; tore himself almost to ribbons among the sloe and blackberry bushes, and emerged at last at a ramshackle forest-keeper's hut, the door of which stood wide open.

By this time he bore not the slightest resemblance to man or beast.

In the courtyard a big, shaggy, lazy mastiff was shambling about, who, on perceiving a strange unknown four-legged animal (Mr. Korde had ceased for a time to belong to the category: man) thus approaching him, sidled up to him with incomparable phlegm, and began sniffing at him all round.

Mr. Korde forthwith collared the neck of the huge dog and began kissing him all over. "Dear friend, faithful old comrade," he cried, "what a long time it is since last we met! What! don't you recognise your old schoolfellow?"—whereupon the big dog in his extreme bewilderment sat down beside the ex-cantor on his haunches and was so astonished that he forgot to bark.

At this Mr. Korde was completely overcome. Once more he warmly pressed the head of his so unexpectedly recovered friend to his bosom, and then shambled along with him into the courtyard. He pathetically complained to him on the way that he had been chucked out of his employment and was now a fugitive on the face of the earth, whereupon he fell to weeping bitterly and dried his tears with the mastiff's bushy tail.

The poor dog was so utterly taken aback that it could not recover from its astonishment. Once or twice it showed its white teeth and growled at the stranger, but it did not venture to hurt him. No doubt it thought that this strange animal might perhaps be able to bite better than itself.

Thus the two quadrupeds strolled comfortably together right into the courtyard. The dog stopped before his three-cornered kennel which Mr. Korde interpreted as an invitation on the part of his respectful host for him to go in first, and, accepting the offer in the spirit of true courtesy, and with the deepest emotion, he squeezed himself into the narrow dog-kennel, while the dispossessed bow-wow squatted down at the entrance of his house with the utmost astonishment, unable satisfactorily to explain to himself by what right this strange wild beast usurped his ancestral holding.

Mr. Korde, however, soon began to snore inside there so terrifically that the scared dog ran out into the middle of the courtyard and fell a-barking with all his might and main, as if he had been offered pitch for supper instead of meat.

As to what followed, it is extremely doubtful whether Mr. Korde saw it all with his own eyes, or whether it was the dream of a drunken brain impressed so vividly on his memory by his imagination that subsequently he fancied it to be true.

* * * * *

The moon had gone down and there was a great commotion in the courtyard surrounding the forester's hut.

A lamp had been lit in the shelter of a shed, and a group of men was standing round it—pale, sinister figures, putting their heads closely together and listening attentively to a lean, lanky man in a cassock, who was reading a letter to them.

The reader was short-sighted, and as he spelt out the letter he put his face so near it as to quite cover his features.

"What the deuce is all this about?" thought Mr. Korde to himself as he peeped through the crevices of the dog's dwelling-place, "what is my colleague, the myoptic schoolmaster doing here, and why is he burying his nose in that bit of paper?"

"I hasten to inform you," so read the man in the cassock, "that the hostile armies are already on the confines of the kingdom. What the object of the enemy is you know right well. He is coming to ravage the realm, wipe out the landed gentry, and divide their estates among the peasantry. What then shall we do? Our peasants are wrath with us for we have treated them very badly, and you, sir, in particular, have no cause to trust them. When you had your house built, as you well remember, you made your serfs work three weeks running for nothing. When you were a young man you ruined the domestic happiness of many a married peasant; you appropriated the communal lands to your own uses; you never bestowed a thought upon the parish church; once you gave the priest a good cudgelling; you kept a poor fellow in jail for four or five years and beat and shamefully treated him. When a poor man wanted to build him a house, you never gave him clay to make bricks with, nor rushes for the thatching of his roof. When lots of planks were rotting away in a corner of your courtyard, and two poor young fellows stole just enough of them to make a coffin for their father, you tied the pair of them up tight in the burning sun and beat their naked bodies with thorny sticks; one of them died a week afterwards of sun-stroke. On one occasion you injured the thigh of a neat-herd on your estate and he is a cripple to this day. When your sheep died of the murrain you hung up their hides to dry—in the schoolhouse. If all these things should now recur to the minds of your tenants, you will have, I fancy, rather a bad time of it. But the rest of us are in the same boat. We never gave a thought to the education of our people. They grew up, they grew old, and all they have ever learnt to know of life is its wretchedness; not one of them therefore has any reason to love us now. What can we do if it comes to an open collision with them? Five hundred thousand gentry against twenty times as many peasants! Why not one of our heads would remain for long in the place where God placed it. We must defend ourselves with the weapons of desperation. It is too late now to try and entice the common folk over to our side, as some of our set want to do who are now distributing no end of wine and corn among their underlings, building sick-houses for them, and putting the priests up to preaching sobriety to them, and the fear of God and due respect for the squire and his family. It is too late now for all that I say. We should only raise suspicions. We must summon Death to our assistance. In order to keep the people down by terror, therefore, we have resolved, in a secret conference, to establish cordons in the various counties and send patrols of soldiers in every direction to search and examine everybody passing to and fro. In this way we shall prevent the people from going from one village to another in large bodies, in fact we must keep them down in every possible way. I, therefore, send you by the bearer of this letter, on whom I can thoroughly rely, a box of powder which you are to scatter about in the barns, the fields, the pastures where the cattle feed, and especially in the wells from which the herdsmen draw water. The county authorities will take care that where this simple method does not do its work, the parish doctor shall compel the peasants to take this powder by force. At the same time we mean to make a great fuss, and spread the rumour that the plague is spreading from the neighbouring states, and will be mortal to many. You, meanwhile, will enclose a large plot of land on your estates, and make a churchyard of it. You may safely make the peasants a present thereof, as it will be mostly filled by them. Take out, by the way, the tongues of all the church-bells, that the number of the dead may not cause any commotion. You might also have prayers said in the church to avert the calamity, and at the same time scatter the powder broadcast. A separate cemetery must be dug lest the plague spread among the gentry. In this way we shall kill two birds with one stone: in the first place the peasantry will be sensibly diminished, and, taking the whole thing as a Divine visitation, will not have the spirit to rise up; and in the second place, the enemy hearing that the plague has broken out among us will fear to pitch his camp here lest it fare with him as it fared with King Sennacherib, who lost his whole army in a single night, as the Bible testifies.

"Believe me, my dear brother-in-law, "Always affectionately yours, "AMBROSE LIGETI."

"The letter is addressed to the noble Benjamin Hetfalusy."

"Horrible, horrible!" cried two or three of the men, while the rest remained speechless with amazement.

"Softly, my friends!" said the rector soothingly. "We must do nothing hastily. So much is certain, however: they have designs upon our lives, and would wipe us clean out."

"Not a doubt of it, else why should they be so friendly towards us? Why should they distribute among us such a lot of food? We have never yet asked an alms from our masters, and hitherto they have snatched the food from our very mouths. If they caress us now it is because they fear us."

"Yes, they would destroy us. The other day they gave me a glass of brandy to drink at the tavern. I saw at once that it was not the usual sort of stuff, and, to make certain, I dipped a bit of bread in it and threw it to a dog, and he would not eat it."

"And why do the parsons preach so much about the scourge of God, the pestilence? Why we have never had a better promise of harvest than now. How do they know when Death will come? Only God can know beforehand whom He will destroy and whom He will keep alive."

"Suspend your judgments, my good friends," resumed the rector, with an affectation of benevolence, "you can see that the hand of God is over us all. He can work great wonders, and it is not impossible that these wonders will come. You can perceive from the signs of Heaven that great changes are about to come on the earth. On Good Friday a bloody rain fell near the hill of Madi; not long ago a flaming sword was visible in the sky three nights running; everywhere about curious big fungi have shot up from the ground, which turn red or green immediately they are broken. Earth and sky seem to feel that the hand of God is about to press heavily upon us."

("Deuce take this instructor of the people for befooling them so!" thought Mr. Korde in his dog-kennel.)

"Did you notice, my brothers, how the rats roamed all about the roads in broad daylight a fortnight ago, how they scuttled away from our landlords' granaries, and set out for another village, and how they stiffened and died in heaps on the way?"

"There you are!" shouted one wiseacre, "the corn in the granary was poisoned!"

("Plague take thee, thou clodpole!" growled the cantor in his hiding-place; "it was the rats that were poisoned, not the corn.")

"And we borrowed of that very corn a fortnight ago to last us till harvest time."

"Then now we'll pay them back with interest!" bellowed one of the rustics, fiercely flourishing a pitchfork.

("I'll swear that's one of my pupils, he is so pugnacious," thought the cantor to himself.)

"And I have already eaten bread made of that very corn, God help me!" cried another; "it is as blue as a toadstool when you break it in two."

("Lout! Tares and other rubbish were mixed up with it, and that made it look blue!")

"And after I had eaten it I felt like to bursting."

("Naturally, for your wife did not bake it sufficiently, and you stuffed it into your greedy jaws while it was still hot.")

"Yes, not a doubt of it, we have all been poisoned, we have eaten of Death."

"My friends, allow me to put in a word," said the benign rector. "You know that I have always desired your welfare; but look now! this mortal danger has appeared in other districts also, possibly it may be a Divine visitation. There are villages in which two or three deaths have occurred in every house, there are other places in which whole families down to the very last poor member thereof have followed one another to the grave. I know of a man who a short time ago had nine sons, now he has nine corpses with him in the house."

"The gentry have killed them also I'll be bound."

"It is so! What would God want with so many dead men?"

"Have patience for a moment, my friends. I don't want to defend the gentry, but I would not condemn anyone unjustly. If there be any truth in this fearful accusation, it will see the light of day sooner or later, and then the arm of God will not be straitened."

"Thanks for nothing, by that time the whole lot of us will be under the sod."

"Produce the fellow who brought this letter!"

Two stalwart rustics thereupon brought forward upon their shoulders a young fellow, bound and pinioned like a trapped wolf, and put him down in the midst of the mob.

"This is the bird who was carrying about the message of death!" cried the rebels, surrounding the poor wretch. And then one pulled his hair, and another tugged at his ears, and a third tweaked his nose, and everyone of them was delighted to have found a fresh object on which to wreak their furious cruelty.

And all the time the fellow ground his teeth together and said nothing.

It was poor Mekipiros. It was his mauled and bruised shape, his half-bestial face that they were torturing and tormenting. There is no sight more terrible than that of a tortured beast that cannot speak.

One of those who had brought him thither was the headsman's apprentice.

This fellow whispered some words in the ear of the rector, and then placed himself behind the back of the fettered monster. His face assumed an expression of cold pitilessness, he bit his lips as if he wanted blood, and screwed up his eyes.

"Harken now, my dear son!" said the rector in a gentle voice; "don't fancy we want to do you any harm, for of course how can you help what is written in this letter; but if you want to escape scot free, answer truly and without compulsion to the questions that I am about to put to you."

The headsman's 'prentice with twitching features gazed fixedly at the interrogated wretch.

"Who gave you this letter?" asked the rector.

Mekipiros sat there tied with cords so as to be almost bent double with his head between his knees, and did not seem to be aware that he was spoken to.

"Do you hear?" whispered the headsman's apprentice hoarsely, at the same time giving him a vicious pinch.

The monster set up a howl, which lasted only for an instant, then he was silent again, and his face did not change.

"Is it not true now, my dear son, that a gentleman gave you this letter?" asked the rector, giving the question another turn.

Mekipiros made no reply.

"I'll make you speak!" yelled his chief persecutor with gnashing teeth, and seizing his head between his muscular fists he shook it violently backwards and forwards. "I'll bring you to reason!"

The monster kept on howling so long as his hair was being tugged; his eyes vanished completely, his head seemed to have grown broader than it was long; but when they let his head go again he only grinned derisively and said nothing.

"My son, bethink you that we do not want to do you any harm if you confess everything, but, on the other hand, we shall have to chastise you unmercifully, as you well deserve, if you stubbornly remain silent—who gave you this letter?"

"Speak, you wretched dog! What were you told to say? Who gave you this letter?" hissed the headsman's apprentice in his ear.

"You gave it to me!" cried the wretch defiantly.

"Scoundrel!" thundered the other furiously, at the same time giving the prisoner a kick; "so you want to palm it off upon me, eh? Hie, there!—a rope!" The fellow's face was as white as the wall, perhaps with fear, perhaps with anger. The rector also grew pale for a moment.

"Yes, you put it into my hand and told me that I was to——"

"Hold your tongue, you wretched creature! Here we have a peasant cub just as ragged as anyone of us, and yet he takes it upon himself to ruin his own kith and kin; I caught him in the act of sprinkling a white powder in a well, and the water of that well is still bubbling and boiling from the virulence of the poison, and yet, as you see, he has the face to deny it all."

"It was you who put the powder in my pocket."

"Very good, I suppose you'll say next that I put this purse of gold in your pocket also? You are surprised, eh? You had better say you got it from me, we shall all believe you, of course. Naturally I have sacks and sacks of gold under my bed. The executioner pays his 'prentices with gold, of course, of course."

"You accursed villain!" cried an old peasant, "let him have the rope! String him up and let him swing!"

"No, my friends, we must not kill him, we have need of him, he must live because he knows so much."

"Then let him out with it."

"Oh, he will talk presently," said the headsman's 'prentice, and folding his arms he stood right in front of the defenceless wretch. "My lad," said he, "you know, don't you, that I have been the headsman's assistant these six years? You know, don't you, that I am accustomed to torture and kill man and beast in cold blood? You know the sort of smile with which I am wont to reply to the agonised despair of my victim, and the memory of it ought to make your brain freeze in your skull. Very well! Let me tell you that I am prepared to practice upon you all the refinements of my infernal handiwork if you do not say all I want you to?"

"I know nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I have forgotten all you taught me."

"You lying serpent! Do you mean to say, then, that I taught you anything? You can see, all of you, that this ripe gallows-tree blossom is determined at any cost to saddle me with his sins. I'll refreshen your memory for you," murmured the headsman's assistant, grinding his teeth. "Carry him over yonder under that plank. You must put out the lamp, for perchance anyone who caught sight of his face might feel sorry for him. Lay him on that block. Where is the rope? A bucket of water here in case he faints..."

From that moment the cantor saw nothing for the darkness, but all the more horrible, therefore, were the pictures which his imagination painted for him as it laid hold of the fragments of words and sounds which reached him at intervals from the outhouse.

The cold-blooded murmuring of the headsman's assistant.

The inquisitorial procedure of the rector.

The frantic cursing of the bystanders.

And from time to time a despairing howl uttered by the tortured monster, a howl which set the terrified dog a-barking, and made him scratch up the ground beneath the gate in order to make his escape.

The cantor began to shiver as with ague.

"The horrible beast won't confess," he heard a couple of furious voices say quite close to him.

"Don't howl like that, but answer my questions," hissed the rector, evidently losing patience.

"The wretched creature tires me out," grunted the executioner. "He bites his lips and smiles right in my face when his very bones are cracking."

"Speak the truth, and you shall be free. We will let you go."

"He's still laughing at me."

Then for some time could be heard a great bustle and clatter in the shed out yonder. There were sounds of hasty, yet cold-blooded preparations for completing something which ought to have been finished long before. There was a sound of running to and fro, of panting and puffing and straining.

And all this time the monster kept on laughing defiantly, though now and then he set up an unearthly howl, and then the whole assembly cursed him for an obstinate gallows-bird.

"Red-hot irons here!" yelled at last a voice of malignant fury, and immediately three of the boors set off running towards the stable. A few minutes later the cantor saw them hastening back to the shed, carrying flaming red objects, which scattered a long trail of sparks behind them.

"Will you confess?" sounded from within.

The monster yelled in the most ghastly manner, and then could be heard a savage gurgling sound For a few seconds the people inside the shed were silent, and then they could be heard whispering to each other with mingled surprise and amazement: "If the cub has not bitten his own tongue out!"

The cantor took advantage of the general consternation to crawl forth from his hiding-place in the darkness, slipped out through the hole scratched by the dog beneath the gate, and then set off running like one who runs down a steep mountain-side; he ran with his eyes fast closed, and early next morning he was found huddled up on the threshold of his own house in a state of collapse.

When he came to himself he sent for some worthy men of his acquaintance whom he could trust, and told them privately what he had seen, frequently hiding his face during his narration, as if to shut out the spectacle of the monster's bloody face.

But his acquaintances, after listening to his tale, only shook their heads, and remarked to one another, what a horrible thing it is when a man is so fond of wine that it takes more than three days to make him get sober again.

It occurred to nobody that there might be some truth in the matter after all. It was not the first time that Mr. Korde had had visions of copper-nosed owls and other horrors.

"As if a man could believe everything that Mr. Korde said!"



CHAPTER VII.

A MAN OF IRON.

General Vertessy had for many years been the commandant of a military station in Hungary. After such a long time as that, men get to be acquainted with one another, and the soldier comes to be regarded as quite a member of the family. The townsfolk, too, begin to speak of him as a member of the upper classes; no great entertainment is considered complete without him, and the ordinary civilian exchanges greetings with him as a man and a brother in all places of public resort. The county makes him a magistrate on account of his numerous distinguished services; he receives the freedom of the city for the same reason; and, finally, the only daughter of a most distinguished patrician family, impressed by the gallant soldier's noble qualities, consents to become his wife; and thus the general, as citizen and magistrate, as husband and landlord, becomes rooted by the strongest ties to the soil which it is his duty as a soldier to defend.

His acquaintances in general have the greatest confidence in him; his tenants allude to him gratefully, for he deals mercifully with them; the citizens regard him with respectful astonishment when, on the outbreak of a fire, he orders out his soldiers, and is himself the first to clamber to the top of the burning roof, distributing his commands in the midst of danger as if his life was worth no more than the life of any broken-down, invalided old soldier; the school children rejoice at the sight of him, for he is always sure to be in his place on the occasion of any public examination, to distribute sixpences and shillings to those scholars who give the best answers, and exhort them to hold up their heads and stand upright like good little men! When then, after this, they meet him in the street, the little fellows throw back their heads and stick out their chests so that it does you good to look at them. For the General dearly loves children. Very frequently they break his windows with their tops and balls, but he never scolds them for it, and always gives them back their playthings. "They are but children, let them play!" says he.

In society, too, he is a most agreeable, amusing man, polite and chivalrous towards ladies, and at public entertainments he distinguishes himself by his neat little speeches, which are always good-natured, very much to the point, and seasoned with attic salt of a piquant but not too pungent quality. He is merciful to the absurdities of his fellow-citizens; it is no business of his to impress them with any affectation of soldierly gravity or stiffness; and if at first sight his stern, clean-shaven face—the regulation countenance of soldiers of those days—keeps a timid stranger somewhat at a distance, he has only to open his mouth, and his beautifully pure Magyar accent and intonation prove to demonstration that, soldier as he is, he has remained a true son of his fatherland—and all hearts open to him at once.

But all this ceases at the gate of the barracks. Within the barrack courtyard there is an end to all friendship, kinsmanship, camaraderie, and patronage. He is no longer either a county magistrate or an honorary citizen. He has done with all those qualities which make up a man's social amiability. Here Vertessy is only a soldier, a rigorous, inexorable commandant, who never overlooks a blunder, and never leaves a fault unpunished.

As regards the good school children, you could give them no better encouragement than to say to them: "The General is coming and will pat you on the shoulder!" but there was nothing so terrible to the bad school children as to be threatened with the General if they did not learn their lessons. "You'll be sent to the General, and he will tap you from the shoulder to the heel and make another man of you in double-quick time," people used to say to them.

At any rate, so much is certain: the most stubborn, pig-headed louts, whom no school would keep at any price, when sent, despite the tears and protests of their fond mothers, to the General's establishment, used to return from thence in a couple of years or so as if transformed. They had become orderly, methodical, manly fellows, courteous, tractable, and as spick and span as if they had just been taken out of a band-box. As to what exactly happened to them during their manipulation in this same military band-box not one of them was ever known to allude in a boastful spirit; but the lay mind had a very strong suspicion that not much time was wasted inside the barracks in fine talking.

Moreover, the General used to have guilty soldiers tied up and well whipped without first stopping to inquire who their fathers might be. With him punishment was meted out with no regard for persons. It was the uniform, not the man who happened to be inside it, that he regarded. When his soldiers were drawn up in line he was quite blind to the fact that this man perhaps was the son of his old crony, or that man was the son of a county magistrate—sergeants, corporals, ensigns, and privates, these were the only distinctions he ever made. And if anybody tried to distinguish himself by appearing on parade in a dirty jacket, he had it well dusted for him there and then in a way the individual concerned was not likely to forget in a hurry.

Nor did the General ever allow anybody, no matter whom, to be exempted from service. The dear little gentlemen-cadets had to pace up and down when on guard, with seven-pound muskets across their shoulders, just like anybody else, though the hearts of their distinguished mammas almost broke at the sight, when they drove over in their fine coaches to see their darlings. Malingerers, again, had a fearful time of it with him. Such young gentlemen never wanted to go to the hospital more than once. Their distinguished mammas would scurry off to the General full of despair, and explain to him with tears in their eyes that this or that young exquisite lay mortally sick in the hospital, would he allow them to take their poor darlings home, or at least let them come to the hospital to nurse the invalids there, or send them nice tempting dishes from home, or tell the family doctor to call? No, nothing of the sort. The General used to receive them buttoned up to the chin, and nothing on earth could move him. The proper place for the fellow was the barrack-hospital, he would say, there he would receive proper treatment like any other of His Majesty's soldiers; the regimental surgeons had quite sufficient science to cure him. And it regularly happened that after a four or five days' course of a platter of coarse barley pottage, and half an ounce of plain black commissariat bread, the young gentleman was so completely cured of every bodily ailment that he had never the faintest wish ever afterwards to divert himself in the hospital, but preferred instead to attend to his daily duties.

Nor could his officers boast that he showed them any special indulgence. It was really terrible how he contrived to fill up their time all day long: instruction, regimental practice, writing, calculation, technical studies filled up every hour of the day. The smoking-rooms of the cafes and the civic promenades very rarely saw Vertessy's officers gathered together there. The officers had to know everything which the General asked them about, and were often obliged to work out for themselves, with the aid of their mother wit, the details of their extremely laconic instructions. Everyone knew, too, that he could not endure the slightest suspicion of cowardice; if an officer were insulted, he was obliged to fight in defence of his honour, or the regiment was made too hot to hold him. If, on the other hand, the townsmen got to know anything of the details of these duels, he would punish severely all the officers concerned in the affair, for he placed boastfulness on the same level as cowardice. Such severity had this good effect however, that the soldiers tried to live amicably with the townsmen as they knew very well that it would be impossible to keep dark a duel with any of the black-coated gentry, such an event was certain to be an object of common gossip in all four quarters of the town within twenty-four hours.

It was also a recognised fact throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom that the officers of Vertessy's regiment were all well instructed, orderly, serious men, and that this result was due entirely to the initiative of "the iron man," for this was the name most usually and very naturally applied to him.

And his face, figure, and expression, corresponded with the name. He was of a tall, straight, well-knit-together habit of body, with broad shoulders and a well-rounded chest. His head seemed almost too small for his extraordinary developed body, especially as the chestnut-brown hair was clipped quite short. His face was of a deep red, and shaved to the chin, but a pair of small well kept semicircular whiskers helped to give it character. His nose was straight, his mouth small; his eyes were grey and piercing. And everything on this face: nose, mouth, eyes, down to the smallest feature, seemed one and all to be under the most rigorous military discipline, not one of them was suffered to move without the General's command. When once his features are under orders to be coldly severe, the lips may not give expression to joy, the eyes may not be clouded with sorrow, the eyebrows may not contract with rage, or lead anyone to suspect, by so much as a twitch or a jerk, that anything in the world outside has the slightest influence upon the business he may happen to have on hand.

We may add that the General did not acquire this honourable title in times of peace. Formerly, beneath the walls of Dresden, when he was a lieutenant scarcely five-and-twenty years old, he had earned it by holding a position on the battle-field as stubbornly as if he had really been made of cast iron, whereby a totally defeated army corps was saved from the annihilating pursuit of the triumphant foe. Even the enemy's general had inquired on this occasion: "Who is that man of iron who will neither break nor bend?" That, then, was how he had won the epithet "iron."

Subsequently the nickname was applied in jest or flattery; you could take it as spite, fear, or homage, according to the manner in which it was pronounced, naturally always behind the General's back, for it went very hard indeed with the man who ventured to pick a quarrel with him, and still harder, if possible, with anybody who tried to flatter him.

* * * * *

In the ante-chamber of "the iron man" stood an orderly with a big sealed dispatch in his hand, a tall grenadier-sort of warrior, with two stiffly twisted moustachios, the pointed ends of which projected like a couple of fixed bayonets. A deep scar furrowed each of his red cheeks from end to end, a living testimony to the fact that this warrior was no mere sucking soldier. His chin was planted firmly on his stiff cravat and half hidden by the broad loop of his shako. His jacket was as white as chalk, and his buttons shone as if they were fresh from the shop. On his bosom gleamed gloriously the large copper medal of which the veterans of former days used to be so proud. The warrior was standing motionless behind the door, with the big sealed dispatch in his bosom; not a muscle of him moves, his heels are pressed close together at attention, his eyes now and then glance furtively from side to side, but his neck does not stir the least little bit.

The oblique motion of his eyes, however, is explicable by the fact that a trim little wench, a nursery-maid from some village hard by, with a round radiant face, with her hair trailing down her back in ribboned pigtails, is rummaging about the room as if she had no end of work to do there, casting furtive sheep's eyes from time to time at the upright soldier, and looking as if she would very much like to say to him: "Oh! how frightened I am of you!"

"Why don't you sit down, Mr. Soldier?" she says at last; "don't you see that chair there? And here have I been dusting it so nicely for you."

"A pretty thing for an orderly to sit down in the General's ante-chamber," replies the defender of his country. "Short irons would be very soon ready for me, I can tell you."

"Then why are you here at all?"

"That is not for your ears, my little sister."

"You are looking for the General, eh? Well, he is inside that room there along with my lady, his wife—why don't you go in?"

"You've a nice idea of manners, I must say! What! an orderly to make his way into the room of the General's lady!"

"Then give the letter here and I'll take it in for you."

"Now, my little sister, that's quite enough! What! deliver a letter into the hands of anybody but the person to whom it is addressed!"

"Do you know how to write, Mr. Orderly?"

"What a question! Ask me another! Why, if I could write I should have become a sergeant long ago."

"Why don't you take off that shako? It's pretty heavy, ain't it?"

"Now, my little wench, that's quite enough! Right about turn, quick march! They are calling you in the kitchen."

The nursery-maid scuttled off. The veteran was getting quite angry at all these simple questions.

In no very long time, however, the neat little wench came sidling back again. First she poked her head through the kitchen door as if she wanted to find out whether the big soldier there would bite off her nose—which was a little snub, and small enough already.

"Mr. Orderly, the cook has sent you three hearth cakes."

"Good."

"Take them then." This she said, still keeping at a safe distance, and thrusting forward the nice lard-made hearth cakes as if she were offering them to some snappy, snarling watch-dog at the end of a long chain.

"I can't," answered the gallant defender of his country sturdily.

"Ain't you got hands, then?"

"No, not for them. But if you like you can tuck them into my cartridge-box behind there."

"What, in there?" inquired snub-nose amazedly. "But ain't there gunpowder inside?"

"Shove 'em in, they won't hurt it."

"Won't it explode?"

"Not unless a spark from your eyes catches it."

The nursery-maid timidly lifted the brightly-polished lid of the cartridge-box, peeping half up at the soldier to see if he meant to frighten her, and at the same time gazing curiously at the many funny round little things in the cartridge-box, at which she pretended to be desperately afraid.

The gallant soldier was in duty bound not to move his hand, but he so far relaxed as to allow the tips of two of his fingers to crook downwards and give the plump round arm of the wench a good tweak.

"Be off with you, I'm afraid you're a bad man after all, Mr. Soldier!"

"I fancy I am too, otherwise I suppose there would not have been so much of me—little and good you know!"

"Do you know why the cook sent you those cakes?"

"That I may eat them instead of you, I suppose."

"Go along, you naughty man! You do say such naughty things! No, she sent them that you might tell her when the next public whipping will take place."

"Does the cook want to see it then? A nice pastime, I must say. You don't want to see it too, do you?"

"No, not I."

"You ought to see it. It is just the thing for wenches. There are always as many ladies present on such occasions as if it was play-acting."

"Oh, I should like to see it then, the sooner the better. Will there be another soon? That's for the General to decide, isn't it? If I were a General I would order a flogging every morning, and make the band play every evening."

"That would be very nice. Come hither, and I will whisper it."

"Truly?" inquired the wench, half turning her head round. "But don't shout in my ear!"

When she had got near enough to the soldier for him to be able to whisper in her ear, he suddenly planted a smacking kiss on her red cheek.

In her terror the wench gave a bound back to the kitchen door, but there she remained standing, and rubbed her face vigorously with her blue apron.

"Yes, you are indeed a bad man, Mr. Orderly. And still you have not yet told me when the next whipping will be."

"Don't fret, my little sister. The spectacle will be better than you think. There will be a shooting-to-death shortly."

"A shooting-to-death! Oh! that will be nice! And who is going to be shot?"

"A soldier, my little sister."

"And you'll have to shoot him, perhaps, eh?"

"It is quite possible, my little sister."

"Oh, Mr. Soldier, that's too bad!"

The snub-nosed wench made haste to quit a room in which stood a man heartless enough to shoot down his living fellow-man, and outside in the kitchen she had a long discussion with the cook about it, and they came to the conclusion that it must be a very fine entertainment to see a man shot right through the head. First there would be the getting up early, for such spectacles generally take place at dawn, and it would never do to sleep away such an opportunity as that, especially as it was just as likely as not that the poor devil would be placed in the pillory first. What could he have been doing? But suppose they were to pardon him? Oh, no! no chance of that, for the General never pardons anybody; even if it were his own son he would not pardon him if he were found guilty, for he was "the iron man."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, inside there, "the iron man" is sitting in his wife's room on a small embroidered armless chair. Opposite to him on a large elevated divan lies his wife, a tiny, elegant, transparent little lady, with a face of alabaster, and wee wee hands which a child of two would not have known what to do with if they had been doled out to her. Her small strawberry-like mouth scarcely seemed to have been made for talking purposes; all the more eloquent, on the other hand, were her large dark-blue eyes, which were saying at that moment that those who can love are very, very happy.

The iron man was sitting in front of her with his elbows planted on his knees and both his hands stretched forwards. Extended on these two hands of his was a skein of thread, which the elegant little woman was winding with great rapidity.

He need only have stretched his arms a wee bit more to burst the whole skein to pieces, but he has learnt to watch very carefully lest the thread gets entangled, and he laughs heartily every time he moves his hands clumsily, at the same time begging pardon and promising to do better in future.

"My darling, I have an old sword—it served me well in the French war—do you think it would be of any use to you?"

The little lady laughed, and how charmingly she could laugh; it sounded like the bells of a glass harmonica striking against each other.

"I understand the allusion. If you can use the owner of the sword for unwinding thread, you might use his sword instead of scissors."

"I mean what I say."

"That doesn't matter a bit, you must wait till the skein is unwound."

"Naturally that is as it should be, of course. Nor would I suffer anybody else to take my place. To hold a skein of thread requires great strength of mind, not every man is up to it. A giddy head would very soon give way beneath the task. It is a science in itself. Besides, I swore before the parson I would take you 'for better or worse.' You see how I keep my word. Look there now! The thread has tied itself into a knot again. Now, if one of your parlour-maids had been holding it, you would have been angry with her, but as my darling little wife it is not lawful for you to be angry. Do you hear me? It is not lawful for you to be angry with me, I say."

The little lady undid the knot again, and her husband tenderly kissed the little intervening hand as it drew nearer; the little lady affected not to have observed this, but she knew it well enough.

"Look now, my darling! it is you who have taught me to consider myself an extraordinary fine fellow. Formerly, when people used to say: General Vertessy is such and such a man, I only used to hold my tongue and think to myself: Talk away! talk away! I happen to know that Vertessy is as timid as a child, there is one thing he is as much in dread of as any schoolgirl, and that is—unravelling a skein of thread. When I was a little chap I twice ran away from home to avoid this very thing. And now my dear little spouse has made it quite clear to me that General Vertessy is not afraid of it after all. Honour to whom honour is due! General Vertessy is a brave man."

"Naturally; why the thirteenth labour of Hercules brought him more fame than all the rest—don't you remember how he held the skeins of Madame Omphale?"

"That was the greatest of his heroic exploits, certainly. You ladies cannot imagine what tyranny you practice upon the masculine gender when you constrain them to this terrible servitude. To wear chains is a mere jest, but when you bind a man with a skein of thread, a mere gossamer, in fact, and then tell him he must not break it asunder, that is cruelty indeed! Why don't the English invent a machine for this sort of hard labour? They rack their brains about steamboats, about woman's rights, and the emancipation of the negro; but as to these fetters, these..."

"Come, come, attend to your skein!"

And indeed those dangerous fetters, as the General called them, were themselves in great danger, for the General in his ardour had made a slight gesture which had almost ripped them asunder.

"I'll take it away from you if you don't behave yourself properly. Fancy making such lamentations over a little skein-unravelling!"

"Oh, I am not speaking of myself. I am used to all sorts of hardships. I pity more particularly those poor innocent children who come to groan under this unnatural yoke. Just picture to yourself, my dear, one such innocent eight or nine years old, a little lad whose blood bubbles over like champagne, who sees the sun shining through the windows, who hears the boisterous mirth of his comrades outside as they play at ball, and would give anything to run away himself and romp and wrestle and turn somersaults; fancy such a one obliged to remain shut up in a room, fettered by a string of thread or cotton, and made to move his hands up and down just as if he were some stupid machine; fancy him fidgeting first on one leg and then on another, and waiting, waiting for the end of the interminable skein! I wonder they don't become utter blockheads beneath the strain. I wonder their teachers don't forbid it. If I had a child he should not be allowed to hold a skein. No son of mine, I tell you, should ever become a mere skein-unwinding machine..."

And it seemed somehow more than a jest, for the gallant soldier now suddenly forgot all about the skein entrusted to him, and with tender emotion pressed his blushing little wife to his bosom.

The little lady with infinite patience slowly disentangled the chaotic labyrinth of threads again, and then exclaimed with a deep sigh:

"Life and death lie between..."

They both knew the meaning of the allusion.

Then the uninterrupted labour proceeded again. The iron man was now completely silent, but one could observe from the unconsciously radiant expression of his face that his mind was occupied by some very pleasing thought, and in the delightful contemplation thereof he had no longer any idea that he was holding a skein of thread.

Presently, however, he said:

"Let us begin another!"

He must certainly have found it a very agreeable pastime to say that.

It was this time a skein of silk that the little lady wanted to have unwound. This was a still higher symbol of tenderness. Not in vain does the folksong sing of the captive of love being bound with silken chains.

"But, my dear, when I was a little boy, and had to hold skeins, my sisters, by way of compensation, used to tell me tales."

"With all my heart."

"Fire away, then: once upon a time...!"

"Once upon a time there was a girl who always wanted to die."

"Ah! I scarcely bargained for that."

"She was constantly pale, and took it for a compliment when people said to her that she was as white as death."

"She must have eaten lots of raw coffee and chalk, I'll be bound."

"Don't interrupt, I want to tell a tale, not circulate scandal."

"I am all attention."

"Sometimes she carried her bizarre ideas so far as to appear at dances in a white dress trimmed with black, and with a myrtle wreath on her head, just as the dead are wont to be arrayed for the tomb. By way of a breast-pin she used to wear a small skeleton's head carved out of mother-o'-pearl, and she boasted that her gloves had been taken out of the coffin of a deceased friend."

"Shall I be very unfeeling if I allow myself to smile?"

"Pray do nothing of the kind, or you'll be very sorry in a moment."

"Ah, ha! I know a man who fell in love with this girl."

"All the more reason to be serious."

"And subsequently that man got the better of his passion altogether."

"Do not be too sure."

"Too sure! Why, I have been studying the whole case these four years."

"As defendant?"

"Defendant, indeed! I wanted to make that girl my wife. Oh! you were quite a little thing then, a wee wee little lass, scarcely so big as my finger. You were learning to dance in those days and had not yet appeared upon the scene."

"And you deserted that girl on the eve of the wedding!"

"I had reasons for doing so, of which nobody, I fancy, is aware."

"They said at the time that you found out that Benjamin Hetfalusy, the girl's father, was over head and ears in debt, and that you withdrew for that reason."

"I did not take the trouble to contradict the rumour, it was so like General Vertessy to marry for money."

"And the Hetfalusy family became of course your bitterest enemies ever afterwards?"

"They have insulted, but they cannot wound me."

"And you forgave them for it?"

"I never troubled my head about them."

"Say that you forgive them."

"I don't want to flatter myself. I simply forgot them."

"Very well, now let us go on with our story. This poor family has had many heavy visitations of late."

Vertessy's face grew very grave.

"My dear, I am afraid your skein of silk will break asunder on my arms if you go on with such stories. Don't speak to me of the calamities of the Hetfalusy family. I am not at all interested in the happiness of these people, and if they are wretched I don't want to hear anything about it. They seem to have always been bent upon tempting Fate, so that it is not surprising if Fate at last has turned upon them. But I don't want to know anything about it. I am not good enough to grieve with them in their misfortunes, and I am not bad enough to rejoice in their misery. Leave the subject alone, my dear Cornelia."

Cornelia put down the little ball of silk, relieved her husband's arms of the skein, and then sitting beside him on a little stool, kept on stroking him with her tiny hands until she had quite smoothed out all the angry wrinkles on his face, and he had brightened up again and declared, like a good little boy, that he was not a bit put out and would listen to the story again.

"Poor Leonora! her married life was very unhappy."

"But she got what she wanted."

"It seems to me that you know more of my story than I do myself."

"I only know the happy part of it. Was not her husband her youthful ideal?"

"You amaze me. Whenever we used to meet subsequently, she was always full of lamentations, and described herself as very unhappy. To my mind she only took Szephalmi out of bravado, because you deserted her."

"My dear, after that I must whisper in your ear something which only one other soul in the world but myself knows anything about. I am sure you will not say anything about it, because you are good, and that other person will be silent because she is afraid to speak. That pale lady who was so fond of thinking of death, who went to a ball in a myrtle wreath and a white dress with a black fringe, used to have assignations in the dilapidated hut of an old village granny with a youth who was no other than Szephalmi, her present husband. The affair was kept so secret that nobody knew anything about it. The old hag, why I know not, confided the secret to me on the very day when I arrived at Hetfalu Castle in readiness for the wedding. It was as I have said. My pale moonbeam, when everybody was asleep in the castle, used to put on a peasant girl's garb, wrap her head in a flowered kerchief, and glide all alone, along the garden paths, to the old woman's hut at the end of the village, where the youth, disguised as a shepherd, was waiting for her. Oh! this intimacy was of long standing. I heard them talking to each other. In my first mad paroxysm of rage, I was for rushing out and killing the pair of them on the spot; but gradually I recovered my senses, and I asked myself whether it was not more shameful for me, a soldier, to have pried upon a woman than for that woman to have deceived me. Besides, what was there to be done if she loved another? She ought not, of course, to have promised me her hand—a hand without a heart must bring dishonour with it. I said nothing to anybody. I went back to the castle, and the next day I had an interview with the girl's father, and made pecuniary demands upon him, which, in view of the shattered state of his finances, I knew it was impossible for him to comply with. We split upon that very point. There was no marriage. The guests separated. The world laughed. I was cried down as a money-grubber, and for a long time I was in such bad odour, that I'll wager anything that if I had sued for the hand of any respectable girl her relations would have shown me the door in double-quick time. My darling little Cornelia certainly displayed great strength of mind to accept a man who was notorious for having jilted his bride."

"And you had to endure a whole heap of persecutions in consequence."

"Yes, a great many. The Hetfalusys had powerful kinsfolk who did their utmost to make life intolerable to me. A nephew of Benjamin's, who was an officer in the guards, insulted me publicly in the street. The most damaging insinuations were made against me in high places. All my measures were openly and freely criticized. They sought to embroil me with the county authorities. I was persecuted by high and low. I defended myself and held my tongue. I fought duels, I had an answer for everyone. I suffered in silence—but I never betrayed that lady's secret. Keep what I have told you in the depths of your heart, my darling, as I have done hitherto."

Cornelia kissed her husband's high open forehead.

"Yet poor Leonora had her punishment too," said she; "he whom she longed after so much when once she possessed him made her wretched. Szephalmi was unfaithful to her."

"My dear Cornelia, you cannot have love without respect. Szephalmi only married his wife because her desperation drove him to do so. I have often heard people say that Leonora used to dance at parties as if she wished to kill herself, and would drink quantities of iced water when she was in a most heated condition. It was no longer a pretence with her. What scenes took place at home between her mother and herself it was no business of mine to pry into; but this I know right well that the girl one day went straight to Szephalmi and threatened him there and then with something terrible if he did not marry her. I will not tell you, Leonora's former friend, the nature of this threat; it would revolt your pure mind too much, for a heart like yours could form no idea of it; but it is certain that it was fear rather than love which induced Szephalmi to lead her to the altar. I know, however, that the marriage was not unblessed; they have two children."

"They had."

"What! are they dead then?"

"A terrible destiny seems to oppress the whole family. The little girl, her father's darling, disappeared one day without leaving a trace behind her, and the other child was struck dead by lightning while the mother was watching by its sick bed; the mother was killed at the same time."

The General was deeply affected by these words. The heart of the iron man trembled.

"Merciful God...!"

"Old Hetfalusy had a stroke when the dreadful tidings reached him."

"No, no! He did not deserve so much suffering. Fate has been more rigorous towards him than he deserved."

"And as if this were not enough—you knew Hetfalusy's son who became a soldier?"

"I knew him. He was a hot-blooded youth, warfare might have made a good soldier of him."

"Well, he quarrelled with his captain in Poland and fired a pistol at him."

"A misfortune, a great misfortune," said the General, pressing his fists so tightly together that if there had been anything inside them it would have been crushed to pieces.

"After this deed the youth fled."

"That is worse still," murmured the General, and he pressed his iron fists still more violently together.

"And if I am not mistaken, this is the third time that he has run away."

There were now two beads of sweat on the General's forehead; he would have wiped it dry with his hand, but he could not, for his fists were firmly clenched, and it never occurred to him to open them.

"My dear Cornelia," said he, "if you know where this young man now is, I implore you to tell me nothing about it. You know that I ought not to hear it."

"You very soon will know all about it; the unhappy youth appeared in his father's house on the very day when his sister and her son lay in their coffins."

"Then he has been arrested," cried the General quickly.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because his own father would be the first person to deliver him up."

Cornelia regarded her husband with amazement.

"Is it not so, I say?" he cried passionately, springing from his seat "Hetfalusy has given up his fugitive son, I'll swear he has, even if I had not been told it beforehand."

"So indeed it is," said Cornelia sadly.

"And how came you to know it before it has been officially reported to me?"

"My uncle is a magistrate there, and he told me. He came from thence in his carriage, while the prisoner was being brought along on foot."

"They are bringing him hither—hither to me," groaned the General impatiently and turning pale. "They will hand him over to me, and I shall have to pronounce judgment upon him."

How he feared, how he shuddered at the thought!

"You could not have told me a worse tale," resumed the General, turning to his wife, and supporting her tender little head against his bosom. "That is a sad, a very sad story."

"But the end has yet to come."

"Yes, and the saddest part of it is that the end of it is in my hands."

"And to my mind it could not be in better hands."

"How can you say that? Is not every member of the Hetfalusy family my personal enemy? If I could forget everything else, must I not remember that they have insulted you? Why, this very young windbag actually insulted you, you my wife, at a public assembly, and now Fate has cast him at my feet, him the last scion of the family, and I must be his judge and pronounce sentence of death upon him! The whole world will believe that I have gladly taken advantage of this grievous opportunity of revenging myself in the most bloody, the most exemplary manner upon my enemies! They will fancy that I condemn the son of my bitterest enemy to the gallows because I am thirsting for his blood. And you say it is well that it should be so!"

"I said it and I will stick to it. I am quite confident that you will save him."

"I save him?" cried the General, opening wide his blue eyes with amazement; "it is impossible."

"I believe that General Vertessy, that rigorous, inflexible man, whom his admirers and his detractors alike called 'the man of iron,' who has never relaxed the rule of discipline to favour friend or kinsman, will do everything in his power to make an exception for once in his life, and save the son of his enemy from the rigour of the law. Oh! I know this gentleman right well, I am confident that so he will act."

"It is impossible, impossible; if he were my own brother I would not save him in his unfortunate position."

"A brother you could not save, I'll allow; but this youth—oh, yes! I am persuaded that you will not be satisfied till you have devised some method of saving this unfortunate youth."

And in saying this, she knew right well how to read the very depths of the heart and mind of the man of iron.

The General impatiently quitted his wife's room, but the moment he had crossed its threshold, there was not a trace of impatience to be seen on his face.

The orderly was still standing in the ante-chamber and, turning on his heels in the direction of the General, presented to him the sealed dispatch which he had thrust into his bosom.

It was the official report of the arrest of the deserter.

The General made a sign to the soldier that he might depart.

Then the General returned to the room he had quitted, spread out the document in front of him, sat down over it, supported his head in his hands, and for a long, long time struggled with oppressive and wearying thoughts.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE POLISH WOMAN.

"Who is at home here?" inquired a strong sonorous voice at the door of the headsman's dwelling, and immediately afterwards a shape huddled up in a grey mantle passed through the kitchen door.

By the hearth were sitting Ivan and the woman of the house, it was a dark tempestuous night outside; it might have been about ten o'clock and every door was closed.

The youth and the woman gazed stupidly at the stranger and said nothing.

"Who is at home here?" repeated he, drawing nearer to the fire, in whose flickering light his smooth handsome young face seemed transparent with its sharply defined eyebrows, soft but masterful lips and courageous eagle eyes which gazed fixedly before them.

The youth and the woman exchanged glances. Instead of answering, Ivan fell to questioning:

"How could anyone possibly enter here?"

"I leaped over the fence," replied the stranger, sitting down beside the fire without the least ceremony. "The door was bolted and barred; twice, thrice did I knock, but nobody opened to me. I was forced to get in somehow."

"How about the dog?" inquired the woman of the house much perplexed.

"I didn't mind him. I know how to talk to dogs. It is a way I have. There's a plaguey bad tempest roaring outside, the rain is falling in torrents. I could not wait outside any longer."

"But what do you want here?" inquired the woman, looking into the face of the stranger with some timidity.

"That is just what I am going to tell you, my dear! But first give me a glass of water, for I am perishing with thirst."

The woman was involuntarily constrained to obey without more ado.

"And you, my friend, spread out my mantle before the fire!" said the stranger turning towards Ivan, and stripping from his neck and shoulders the heavy mantle which was dripping with rain.

The youth and the woman incontinently obeyed his commands as if they were under a spell.

The mantle was removed, the slim, muscular figure of the stranger was clearly visible, it seemed too soft for a man's. His hands as they grasped the beaker seemed white and delicate.

"That is certainly a woman," murmured the headsman's wife to Ivan, staring suspiciously at the stranger from beneath her thick contracted bushy eyebrows. Then approaching him and looking him full in the face she said: "My Dovey! It seems to me that you are in no good way. Whom do you seek?"

"The master," replied the stranger curtly, resting his elbows on the hearth.

"Possibly you may suppose this house to be an inn because it lies at the extreme end of the town?"

"I think nothing of the sort, my pretty mistress. I know that here dwells Master Zudar, the worthy ferry-master."

"Ferry-master?"

"Yes, ferry-master! Does he not transport men from this world to the next?"

"How come you to know the master?"

"I have never seen him, yet I know him well for all that. It is not possible to speak to him now because he is a-praying. He prays regularly for a whole hour at a time, and then it is not well then to disturb him. That is why you two are crouching in the kitchen here. You, my pretty mistress, are Master Zudar's wife, and this young man is his 'prentice. I know you very well also."

"But who are you yourself then? Speak! What do you want?" asked the woman much puzzled.

"I shall tell that to the master himself, inside there, when he has quite finished his devotions. It is his habit every night, before he lies down, to fire off his gun, then I will approach him. Meanwhile sit down beside me! Look ye, this bench can very well hold the pair of us, let us have a little talk together."

The stranger thereupon doffed his little round furred cap and his long black trussed-up locks fell in curling ringlets about his shoulders.

"'Tis a woman, a woman indeed!" whispered Ivan and the dame of the house to each other.

The latter now approached the enigmatical shape a little more boldly, and sitting down beside him, opened a conversation with him.

"What, pray, is your business with my husband?"

"Come, come, my dear creature! You have no right to put such questions to me. You ought rather to ask me whether I am hungry and would like some supper. You would not have to ask me that twice I can assure you."

The woman, at this hint, arose sullenly and took from a wainscot cupboard a plate of hearth cakes which she set before the stranger.

"I suppose, sir, you don't mind eating off the headsman's platter?" said she.

"Stuff! What if I am of the same profession!"

"Oh, of course! I can see that from those soft white little hands of yours which are not such as the hands of a man ought to be."

But the words were scarce out of her mouth when the virago uttered a loud scream, for the little white paws she had just tapped suddenly pressed her huge fleshy palm so vigorously that every bone in it cracked.

"Satan take him!—'tis a man, not a doubt of it!" whispered the woman to Ivan. "He has a hand like an iron vice."

The stranger had an excellent appetite. There was absolutely nothing at the bottom of the platter when he had finished eating.

"Pardon!" cried he at last, "perhaps I ought not to have gobbled up everything. Perchance this was set aside for someone who does not happen to be at home just now."

"Oh, don't be uneasy on that score, we have all had our suppers."

"But this is not the whole family I suppose? Have you no children?"

"Yes," replied the woman, and as she spoke she durst not lift her eyes to the stranger's face. "I have a daughter."

"Really your own child?"

The woman looked hesitatingly at the stranger, twice she attempted to speak and twice the words seemed to stick in her throat.

"Yes, my own child," she said at last.

"And have you no other 'prentice but this one, Dame Zudar?"

"No, why should I?"

"And are you two able to carry on the business?—for I suppose there are all sorts of things to be done?"

"Good heart alive! The less you say about the headsman's trade the better."

"But why should I not talk about it? It is a regular profession, is it not, like any other? And just as respectable too, eh? Nay, it is more profitable than most trades, because there is less of competition in it. Now, as for me, I have a perfect passion for it. Why, the only reason why I am here is to come to some arrangement with Master Zudar. I want to buy of him, my pretty dame, the business which you loathe so much."

The headsman's wife regarded the stranger with eyes full of doubt and astonishment.

"You are a very young man for the business," said she suspiciously.

"Oh, as for that, my dear, pray don't imagine that I am going to put up with all the disagreeables of the profession for the fun of the thing. I mean to have lots of help I can tell you. I shall live in town and frequent the best taverns and coffee houses. I shall live like a gentleman and nobody will know who I am. I shall only appear on the scene officially when an execution worthy of my skill awaits me—a nice beheading or something of that sort, you know. Oh! I shall have a fine time of it I can tell you."

Dame Zudar felt a shudder run all down her back. She durst not look again at the stranger.

"It is a pity you have not more than one 'prentice now. It looks as if you had very much neglected the business. I am annoyed at that. It will be difficult to give it a fresh start. Had you not more than one apprentice a little time ago?"

"Yes, there used to be another," stammered Dame Zudar involuntarily.

"Then why did you pack him off?" inquired the unknown, picking from the fire with his delicate index-finger a burning ember, tossing it lightly on to his soft palm, and thence chucking it adroitly into the bowl of his little pipe.

The woman and Ivan exchanged a look as if deliberating together what answer they should give, and then the woman hastily replied:

"He went away of his own accord; the business is a pretty one, but he got disgusted with it."

"Oh—ho! what a rum 'un the fellow must have been. And has he a better time of it now?"

"I don't know," replied the virago defiantly. "It is not my business to find out what has become of my discharged apprentices. He got sick of this trade and took to another—that is the whole thing."

"You are quite right, my pretty dame, not everyone is fit for this business. A man must have a natural liking for it. I, for instance, would never take as an apprentice a man who had not spent some time in a dungeon, or cooled his heels in jail two or three times running in five or six years, for all the others are for ever wishing themselves back in polite society, and want to live in town. And then, too, they are always sighing and groaning and trying to make out that they are too good for the business. I don't like such people myself. Those who are likely to excel in this business show their teeth betimes. Those children who put out the eyes of birds, nail bats to barn doors, and love to shoot at little dogs, those are the sort of fellows from which apt pupils can be trained."

"That is quite true. Why you, yourself, must be the son of a headsman, or else you would not know all the conditions of the trade so well."

"You've hit it, that is just what I am. My father was an executioner and my grandfather before him, the business has steadily descended from father to son."

"Where do you live then?"

"In Poland. Rochow is where my father dwells. You must have guessed already from my accent that I was a Pole."

"Yes, and from your face too."

"My brother and I divided our heritage between us. He got the Rochow business and paid me out in cash that I might set up for myself elsewhere. I heard that the executioner of Hetfalu was getting sick of his office, for of course he is not growing younger, is he? Come, now! you silly little thing, you must not be angry with me for saying that! You know very well that your husband is an old man, and there are lots of old men who have pretty young wives. There is no great harm in that. I only asked you whether he was old, because in that case he would be more likely to seek for repose."

"Yes, young sir, my husband loathes the business with all his soul."

"But there's a great deal of fun in it too, if only you look at it properly. I have often gone to Lemberg togged up like a swell, with a fine jewelled pin in my scarf, a gold chain and a little whalebone stick in my hand. I have turned the heads of two or three fine ladies and insinuated myself into the best society—and what a joke it was when they found out who I really was. How pale they all went, and how their hair stood on end. Ha, ha, ha!"

"But didn't they make you pay for it afterwards?"

"Well, once I was called out by a young cadet. Officers of higher rank thought it beneath their dignity to fight with me, the utmost they did was to pitch me out of the window. The lad who challenged me was a Hungarian, and I promised to appear at the rendezvous. I am afraid, however, that he waited for me a very long time. I like to shed blood, but only when I run no risk myself."

All three laughed heartily at this witticism.

"But listen to the sequel of my story. My father has an amiable whim of his own—he always prefers to have deserters from the army as his assistants. He is well aware that men of that kidney have practically renounced the world. Now who do you think rushed into his house one evening all ragged and travel-stained? Why the very soldier-youngster who had wanted to fight a duel with me! To avenge his sweetheart he had shot his captain and had to make a bolt of it."

The woman and Ivan involuntarily looked at each other with terror.

"You may imagine how I laughed the poor youth out of countenance when I recognised him. Every time I met him I used to say to him: 'Well, what do you say to our fighting our duel now?' He could not stand such heckling long. On the third day he skedaddled, and I don't know what became of the poor fellow. I have little doubt, however, that since then he has been shot dead."

"If they have not done it yet it won't be very long before they do," observed Ivan.

"Hush!"—hissed the woman with a warning gesture.

The unknown did not seem, however, to have noticed this little piece of by-play.

At that moment the report of a gun was heard from the headsman's window. At night he used regularly to discharge his firearms and load them again immediately afterwards. He was afraid that someone might have got at them in the course of the day and either extracted the bullets or damped the powder. He did not feel himself safe in his own house, and always locked the door of his room before he lay down to sleep.

"Now you will be able to have a talk with him if you like," said the virago. "The girl will come down presently, as usual, to fetch him his water for the night, you can let her know that you are here and want to speak to him."

Shortly afterwards the door opened and, with a lighted taper in one hand and a ewer in the other, the moon-pale little maid entered the room. She came very quietly, as if afraid of making the slightest noise. Her beautiful blonde locks had been unloosed, for it was bedtime, and strayed freely over her smooth snow-white shoulders, her tiny bare feet seemed to kiss rather than touch the ground.

The stranger gazed at the gentle creature with rapt delight. She did not appear to notice him in the semi-darkness, as she glided past him through the vestibule on her way to the well.

"Is that your own child, my fair dame?" asked the unknown, flashing his eagle eyes full upon the woman.

"Yes, my own child!"

"How fair she is, and how pale!"

The woman laughed.

"While I am so brown and ruddy, eh?"

And again she laughed aloud.

The face of the unknown blushed deeply. One could have sworn it was a woman. It was the blush of shame that covered his face.

In a few moments the child returned with the filled ewer in her hands.

"Come hither, my little girl!" said the stranger, in a tender, affectionate voice.

The child started violently.

"Don't be alarmed!" growled the virago. "Don't you hear that this gentleman wants to speak to you? Are you afraid he will bite your nose off?"

And with these words she seized the child's hand roughly and pushed her towards the stranger.

The stranger softly patted the child's little head.

"Don't be afraid of me, my little girl! You have no reason to fear me. What is your name?"

"Betsey!" replied the virago.

"Ah, why Betsey? Such a coarse, common name for such a tender child! I would call her Elise, that is far prettier. Besides, the two names mean one and the same thing."

"Nay, nay, you will spoil the child, sir. As if she was not spoilt enough by her father already. Peasant folks call their daughters Betsey or Polly; Elise and Lisetta are the names of gentlefolks' children. You must not listen to such nonsense, child; but go and tell your father that there is a gentleman here from Poland who wants to speak to him immediately before he lies down."

The child timidly withdrew her little hand from the stranger's, who seemed very disinclined to let it go, and hastened to her father's room.

The stranger thereupon tidied up his clothing, smoothed back his hair on both sides of his forehead, thereby giving to his features a gentle amiable expression, and softly tapped at the headsman's door.

"Come in!" resounded a deep melancholy voice from within.

The unknown youth entered and carefully closed the door behind him.

The moment he was well within the room, the smile of frivolous braggadocio he had lately assumed entirely disappeared from his face; the defiantly thrown back head bent meekly down; a look of devout inspiration was visible on the thin lips and in the veiled eyes; the whole figure of the man seemed to have grown smaller, the shoulders contracted, the breast receded; he had now the air of a gracious and benignant missionary.

And a benignant missionary indeed it was who now stood face to face with the headsman.

The herculean figure of the headsman arose slowly and tremulously, and while his hand with furtive anxiety sought the hand of the little girl, he asked the stranger in a scarcely audible voice what he required of him. Perchance the latter did not catch what he said, he spoke so low.

"Peace and blessing be upon this house!" said the unknown in a voice full of tender unction.

"Amen, amen!" the headsman hastened to reply.

"Heaven's blessing descend upon thy heart, my son!" said the youth to the old man raising his hand in blessing.

"He is a pastor, a priest," said the headsman to himself, "he has all the appearance of it."

Peter Zudar stooped down towards the youth's hand and kissed it. He durst not touch it with his own hand but with his lips only.

"A priest in my house, forsooth! My child! take the gentleman by the hand and lead him to the arm-chair, make him sit down! Thy hands are clean, they may touch him. Oh! a man of God in my house! I never dared to hope so much."

"I come from afar," said the unknown youth, sitting down in the arm-chair provided for him, while the old executioner stood before him bare-headed, with his large muscular arms folded across his bosom. The little girl wound her hands round his arm and stood beside him.

"I come from afar, I say. I do not belong to your nation, though I understand your language well enough to be able to converse in it intelligibly. In olden times the Apostles of our Holy Faith received direct from Heaven the gift of tongues, we, their unworthy successors, must, with great labour and weariness, acquire the languages of those to whom we have to preach the Gospel. I am the member of an English religious society whose mission it is to seek out those who are suffering, in whatever rank of life they may be, and endeavour to administer to them, so far as we are able, those divine consolations which God so freely distributes to the broken-hearted. We have our special missionaries for every section of humanity, and we send them forth continually to minister to their sufferings, and bring them peace and healing. Some of us are sent to the palaces of the mighty, others to the hovels of the poor. For everyone on earth has his own particular sorrow, and everyone finds his own sorrow very hard to bear. Some of us have chosen the dungeons and jails as our spheres of consolation, others prefer to comfort the secret woes of family life, others again visit the needy masses of the work-people. To me has been assigned the task of ministering to those terrors of evil doers, the public executioners."

At these words the youth looked steadily at the face of the man, who was standing there before him, with downcast eyes and quivering lips.

"For the last nine years I have been going about in this strange world of mine," continued the youth. "I have learnt something of the deepest wounds and of the sublimest woe. All the suffering in this department of sorrow is very much alike. Some can hide their wounds better than others—that is the sole difference. There are amongst these headsmen cold impenetrable natures, hearts closed against the world, whom it is very difficult to get at. And then again there are devil-may-care, extravagant, passionate dispositions who fancy they can find oblivion in wine, excitement, and other external delights. And then, too, there are defiant, haughty souls, who mock and jeer at those things which ordinary people are afraid of—but at the bottom of all their hearts it is the same worm that is ever gnaw-gnawing. Some of them die young, others grow grey, and have a late old age before them. And it is the selfsame worm which kills the one and will not let the other die. I have known among them men who, drink as they would, could never get drunk. I have known others who loathed the sight of wine and yet have been haunted by phantoms in broad daylight. The evil was always one and the same. Yes, and the mercy of God is always one and the same likewise."

"God's mercy is indeed over all!" stammered the headsman.

"And if this endless mercy did not cover the earth what could defend all living beings from judgment? If the Lord were one day to proclaim: 'Let Justice prevail in the world instead of Mercy!' must not we all be instantly consumed by the divine vengeance? The Lord does not look at the outward appearance of men but at their hearts. He judges him who charitably distributes alms at the church door to make up for the secret sins that he has carefully concealed at the bottom of his heart, and raises once more the broken-hearted sinner who has fallen beneath the stress of temptation."

The headsman slowly sank down upon his knees before the chair of the unknown, and rested his folded arms against it.

"What are we after all? Impotent tools in the hands of all creative Power. Greater in the eyes of God is humble weakness than haughty strength; dearer to Him is the repentant sinner than the man who boasts of his virtues. All that is power is His gift, and His gift must needs return to Him again. Strength will turn to dust, merit will become but as an empty sound, God's mercy alone will endure for ever. Heaven is always open to him who seeks it."

The youth tenderly stroked the old man's hands whilst he tried, tremulously, to draw them away.

"Oh, sir, touch not my hands!"

The youth seized one of the executioner's hands by force and drew it towards him, looking as he did so, now at the old man's hand and now at his face. Then with his delicate index-finger he pointed at the headsman's forehead.

"I see here a whole network of wrinkles," said he, "and this cross of ill-omen here betokens the anguish of a heavy heart. Thy hand trembles in mine because it feels upon it spots of innocent blood."

"True, true!" groaned the strong man, hiding his face in his hands.

"Thou hast executed a death sentence upon a man whose innocence shortly afterwards became as clear as noonday."

"So it is. You can read right into my heart. It is even as you say."

"This thought haunts thy mind continually and the mark of it is on thy forehead."

And at that moment could be plainly seen on the old man's forehead the deep cruciform mark of the intersecting furrows.

The youth laid his fresh cold hand on the man's forehead.

"Who can tell why the Lord hath ordered it so? Who can tell whether the blindly executed convict did not deserve his punishment after all? Who knows whether he was not worse at heart than he who actually committed the bloody deed? What if he wished his father's death, and therefore was guiltier than he who carried out that wish? A wise monarch in the East once hung up twelve robbers by the roadside, and placed watchers there at night to guard the bodies. While the watchers slept, the comrades of the robbers cut down the body of their leader and made off with it. The awakened watchers, full of the fear of punishment, hung up a wayfaring peasant in the place of the missing body. An innocent man!—And behold when they searched the baggage of the peasant's mule they found the bloody limbs of a freshly murdered traveller! 'Twas the judgment of God. But suppose that the youth whom thou didst execute was really innocent? Who shall dare to say, even then, that Heaven distributes death by way of punishment? What if it were sent as a favour, as a reward?—Once, in the olden times, a God-fearing couple prayed Heaven to bestow its greatest reward upon their twin sons for their filial piety, and next morning they were found dead.—Who knows from what calamity Heaven may have saved him by dealing him that blow? Might he not have grown base and vile had he been spared? Might he not have been plunged in misery and ruin? Might he not have become a murderer or a suicide? Might he not ultimately have come to die on the selfsame scaffold, aye, and deserved it too? Only He is able to answer all these questions before Whom the future lies clear and open. We can only see through a glass darkly; we do not even know when we ought to laugh or when we ought to weep."

The youth removed his hand from the old man's forehead, and, lo! that ugly wrinkle had been smoothed away, and the headsman could raise aloft eyes full of comfort, and folding his hands across his huge heaving breast, he began to stammer softly:

"Our Father...!"

When he had pronounced the "Amen!" the unknown youth raised him tenderly from his knees, and the pale little girl embraced the old man's arm and leaned her head against it.

"Hast thou not always had about thee here Heaven's messenger of mercy?" said the youth, pointing to the fair child. "Has not Heaven sent her to thee without any effort or foreknowledge on thy part, so that even to this day thou canst not tell from whence she came?"

The man tapped his bosom:

"Sir," said he, "read into my heart. You know everything."

The stranger thereupon turned to the little girl and addressed her in a gentle tone which instantly inspired confidence.

"My good little child, go downstairs and tell them to put my horse, which I have left standing outside the gate, under cover, lest it be drenched by the storm."

"I myself will lead it to the stable and give it food and water."

"Thank you, my little girl."

Little Elise sought for something in the wardrobe, and, concealing it in her apron, went out.

The stranger looked after her till she had closed the door behind her. A solemn silence then prevailed in the room, the youth looked at the old man in silence as if he expected him to speak.

In a short time Peter Zudar approached the door and opened it—in the kitchen all was now dark.

"They are asleep now," he muttered, partly speaking to himself, partly addressing his words to the stranger. "The woman has gone to rest, the lad is with the horses, the child will remain in the kitchen, she has something to do there I know. This, my good sir, is the time for us to talk. Outside there is nought but storm and darkness, I cannot let you go further on your way while it is like this."

It was only after much persuasion that the old man consented to sit down beside the youth and began to speak.

"I am an old man, sir, my hoary hair speaks the truth. I have gone through a great deal. My father also was an executioner, and my grandfather before him. I inherited 'the business' so to speak. In my younger years I was wild and frivolous. I loved racket, wine, and boisterous mirth. A sort of heavy indescribable load oppressed my heart continually, a sort of blinding darkness enveloped me which I would gladly have chased away had I only known how. This heavy mental oppression, this black weariness tortured me more and more, according as my sad reminiscences multiplied with my advancing years, and I drank more and more wine, and plunged all the more recklessly into vile debauchery in order that I might not hear all round me those faint sighs and moans which troubled and terrified me most when there was not a sound in my room, and I was all alone. My acquaintances used to laugh at me because I sat all alone drinking silently till far into the night, just as they used to laugh at me afterwards for sitting by myself and singing hymns."

The fellow sighed deeply and was silent for a time, as if he were trying to gather up again the threads of his scattering thoughts.

"You may perhaps have noticed a woman outside there. That is my wife. I married because I fancied that I should thereby find rest for my soul. I imagined how happy I should be if I were to have a child. I should then have something to knit me to life, to the world again. No, I said to myself, he shall not inherit the curse of my abhorred existence. I will choose for him a career in which he will be happy, honoured, and respected. I will provide him with a comfortable maintenance and have him educated far from me and my house. I will make a worthy, honest, sensible man of him. For two years I comforted myself with such visions and was happy. My mind shook off its horrors and became bright and cheerful. And then—then I began drinking heavily again. Evil memories commenced assailing me worse than ever, and my fair hopes abandoned me—for life and death, sir, are both lodged in a woman's heart, and some find the one and some the other. Once more I was visited by that midnight sighing, by that speechless moaning, by those voices that terrified my solitude and pursued me sleeping and waking, and I began to drink and run riot again once more."

The man hid his drooping head in his hands. Even now those dreadful memories weighed him down when he thought upon them.

"Suddenly I began to be deaf. A continuous humming sounded in my ears which kept me in a perpetual whirl. I did not understand a single word unless I looked at the lips of the speaker. I never noticed anyone coming into my room until I suddenly caught sight of him. Oh! deafness is indeed a horrible torture. The deaf man is far more completely shut off from the world than the blind. At first I hid my wretchedness lest they should make sport of me. Nobody is merciful to the deaf. Whenever two people talked to each other in my presence I fancied they were plotting against me. I feared to go to sleep lest I should be murdered without hearing my door burst open. And then, too, in the night, in the darkness, in my lonely deafness, I had an ear all the keener for those sighs and moans which nobody could hear but myself. And in vain I drank, in vain I sang riotously. After every bumper of wine it seemed to me as if I was plunged more and more deeply into a roaring bottomless sea, and at last I could not even hear my own howling. Then my soul died away within me, I cast myself despairingly on my bed, and then for the first time in my life it occurred to me to pray. The only thing I could think of to say was: 'My God! my God!' as I wrung my hands, and the tears ran down my cheeks."

And at these words tears stood once more in the headsman's eyes.

"That night I slept quietly, nothing disturbed me. Thus I slumbered for many hours like one dead, and was only awakened at last by a feeling of moisture all over my face. I had been lying face downwards, and a rush of blood had come through my nose and mouth and wetted my couch. I arose, douched my face in a large tub of water, and felt that my head was very much relieved. I no longer heard that roaring sound as of a deep sea rolling over me; there was no more whispering and moaning around me; but, instead of that, I heard through the deep stillness of the night the crying of a child. The crying of a child in my own house! I fancied it was but a dream-voice—for was I not deaf?—and that instead of a pursuing, the voice of an enticing spectre was now sounding in my ear. But again the crying of a child penetrated to me from the room where my wife usually slept. What could it be? I walked thither, and lo! I could hear the soft pattering of my own footsteps. I must walk more softly, thought I. And I did walk more softly, and then I also heard distinctly the light cracking of the boards beneath my feet. And through it all the weeping of that child sounded continuously. The door was only closed by a bolt. I slipped it softly aside so that not a sound should be heard. Softly I opened the door. And behold! on the table in the middle of the room was a tiny babe. The night-lamp flung a flickering flame across its face, it could not have been more than a couple of months old. It was wrapped up in fine swaddling clothes, a tiny embroidered chemise covered its little body, and its wee round head was covered by a deep cap trimmed with pearls, from underneath which welled forth tiny little ringlets like fine gold thread. Just like those little painted angels of whom you only see the heads peeping out of the sky."

The unknown smiled so sympathetically at the childish simile of the old headsman.

Then Peter Zudar's face again grew clouded, he drew his chair closer to his guest's and thus continued:

"My wife was not in the room. Her bed was empty and I could see through the door, which she had left open behind her, that a large fire was flickering in the kitchen. My wife was busy with something at the hearth and with her was her mother, a sly, wicked old woman, whom all the people hereabouts look upon as a witch. What were they doing there so late at night I asked myself? The younger woman was holding a pan over the fire and the elder was casting into it all sorts of herbs. There was nothing to be afraid of, and yet they were speaking to each other in whispers and peering timorously around. I know not how the thought occurred to me, but I suddenly thrust into my bosom the little suckling lying on the table and carried it off into my own room. There I laid it down upon my bed and put into its hands again its plaything of little bells which it had dropped, whereupon it ceased to cry. Then I returned to watch and see what the two women would do next. The contents of the pan were already frizzling. Now and then it boiled over into the fire and the flames shot up all round it. Then the old woman would skim it carefully with a spoon. And all the time they were muttering together:

"'Are you sure nobody is awake?'

"'No, everyone is asleep.'

"'How about the old Knacker?'

"'He is drunk by this time and so deaf besides that he could not even hear the blast of a trumpet.'

"At last they finished what they were about, poured the mess into a large dish, and the pair of them came back again into the room. And there was I standing in the midst of it! It had the effect upon them of a thunderbolt. The old woman let fall the dish and the young one rushed at me like a maniac:

"'You deaf hog, you! what have you done with the child?'

"'Don't bawl so loudly, my good woman,' I said. 'I can hear you just as well if you speak softly.'

"'What have you done with the child?'

"'Don't be uneasy about it, it is in a safe place.'

"'You old fool, you; you will bring the whole lot of us to ruin. Do you know what you are doing?'

"'I know this much, that however you may have got hold of the child it shall not fall into your hands again. I will take it and care for it myself, and whoever dares to come into my room after it shall have good cause to remember that I am the public executioner!'

"And with that I went into my room and locked it behind me. The women cursed aloud and hammered at my door, and the old witch threatened to undo me in all sorts of ways; but I quietly and comfortably got out my milk-warming machine and heated a mash of breadcrumbs and milk over my spirit lamp. When it was ready I took the little child upon my lap and fed it nicely myself. Then I made a cradle for it out of my coverlet, which I slung upon a beam, and rocked it to sleep, and when I looked at it in the morning it was still slumbering."

After saying these words the headsman took out of a little cabinet a small bundle, carefully wrapped up in paper, and, unwinding it gradually from its manifold wrappings, set out its contents before the stranger.

In the parcel was a dainty little child's smock, a pair of socks, and a baby's cap trimmed with pearls. Everyone of these items was marked with a red "E."

"I keep these things as souvenirs," he continued. "This crisp little smock, this baby's bonnet embroidered with rosebuds and forget-me-nots, are more precious to me than all the treasures of life, for to them I owe the soothing moments which poured balm into my soul. It was by the side of this child, sir, that I learnt to pray. Something whispered to me that this child was sent to me from Heaven. And so it must have been. Nobody under heaven loves me save she, and I love nobody, nothing else in the world. I have never tried to find out who the child might be, nay, rather I have trembled lest she might one day be discovered and demanded back from me. But all these years nobody has inquired after her. I fancy she must have had a bad mother whom they told she was dead, and she was glad to hear it. Perhaps she even wished it to be killed. Ah! sir, there are those born outside the headsman's house who ought to end their lives on the headsman's threshold. Never for one hour's time have I quitted that child. I taught her to walk, to talk, I prepared all her food for her, and now she prepares mine for me. I have eaten no cooked food which her hand has not made ready. While she was still but a wee thing I watched by her bed while she slept, now she watches over me while I sleep. When I go a journey she comes with me, I never leave her behind. Only one thing troubles me when I think of her: What will become of her when I die? what will become of her when she grows up?"

The youth tenderly pressed the old man's hand, and said to him with a voice betraying some emotion:

"Don't be uneasy! Thou hast been a good father to the child, if thou shouldst die I will find a good mother for her. Make a note of this name and address: 'Maria Kamienszka, Lemberg.' Whenever thou dost write to the above address on this subject thou shalt receive an answer with full information. Nay, perhaps thou mayest hear sooner from that quarter than thou desirest."